


Illyrian Sunbathing

by CatastrophicallyInLoveWithBooks



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, and Cass is a mess, but Nesta is oblivious, wing sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 01:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatastrophicallyInLoveWithBooks/pseuds/CatastrophicallyInLoveWithBooks
Summary: His whole world narrows to the feel of her hands - steady and unexpectedly gentle – rubbing tight circles on the outer upper part of his wings. He clenches his hands around the armrests of the chair and closes his eyes trying to focus on his breathing and not the feel of her hands on him.He debates explaining to Nesta exactly how sensitive Illyrian wings are but he knows that the realisation of what she is doing would horrify and embarrass Nesta so much that she would never speak to him again. So he braces his elbows on his thighs, lets his head hang forward and tries to find another way to get her to stop.





	Illyrian Sunbathing

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt by @modernbookfae on Tumblr. Follow me on the site of hell (I have the same username)!

Cassian walks into the townhouse and leaves his sword on the table in the main room, Azriel following close behind. This has become part of their everyday routine in the past couple of weeks. Every day, after dealing with whatever duties Rhys had assigned them, they go to the townhouse for an hour. Az started regularly training Elain with her new-found Shadowsinger abilities and the two struck up an unlikely friendship. They are thick as thieves, their shared ability helping them bond even more than they had during the war and they now started hanging out even outside of their training sessions.

Cassian, unlike Az, doesn’t actually have a reason for going to the townhouse every day – a fact which Nesta loves to point out – but while he is there, he often finds himself in the same room as Nesta, trying to get a reaction out of her while she blatantly ignores him and storms out of the room when he becomes too insufferable. Today is going to be different, though. The two Illyrians had both had the day off and they spent the morning sword training in the sun which put the both of them in an unusually good mood.

Azriel cancelled his training with Elain for the day and as soon as he enters the townhouse, he heads to the tiny garden where he knows he will find her. Cassian walks into the bright and open kitchen and pours himself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher on the island before walking outside to join Azriel and Elain. The two are in the corner, almost hidden from view by all the luxuriant vegetation. They are chatting and smiling contentedly and Azriel reaches and adjusts Elain’s gardening hat so it won’t fall over her eyes while she giggles. Cassian smiles softly at how happy they seem to be. He places his lemonade down on the small table before he sits down in the adjacent sunchair, spreading his wings and letting them drape over the sides of it. When he looks up he sees that Elain had raised a gloved and muddied hand in greeting, he grins and waves back at her before she returns to her gardening.

Cassian leans back in his chair, tilts his face up and closes his eyes for a moment, savouring the caress of the sun on his skin.

“Good morning.”

Cassian instantly knows who it is. If the cold expressionless voice wasn’t enough indication, the thread tugging on his ribs and making it nearly impossible for him not to turn around and face her confirms it. He turns and smirks at her.

“It’s lunchtime, sweetheart. Some people have been up since sunrise,” he says. He is trying to get a rise out of her, as usual. They had both warmed up to each other, their hostility slowly shifting into something else but this back and forth banter had still remained their routine.

She doesn’t react though, except for an almost imperceptible tightening of her lips. She isn’t in the mood for a verbal sparring match today, it seems. Perhaps the sunshine after two weeks of torrential downpours had been enough to thaw even Nesta’s ice a bit. She places her own glass of lemonade and a book on the small table and Cassian turns and faces towards the garden again, closing his eyes.

He hears Nesta shuffling around for a bit and the next thing he knows is that her hand is on the top of his outstretched wing. He yelps in shock and instantly snaps them tight against his back and leans forward in the chair, stunned and completely unable to form any words. Had no one warned her not to touch an Illyrian’s wings without permission? Had there not been an intrinsic part of him which prevented him from causing her any harm, she would have lost her hand in a fraction of a section.

She clucks and grabs the edge of his wing, pulling to open it and for a few moments he is too stunned and confused to resist and the only thing he manages to get out is a half-choked “What are you doing?”

“Stop being such a big baby, the tops of your wings are already red! Do you want them to burn to a crisp?” she chides. She sets about massaging a thick lotion into his wings and he realises she is covering his wings in the sun-protecting salve he was meant to be using while they were still healing from all the injuries they had sustained during the war. As soon as he realises, Cassian tries to bring his wing close to his body and out of her reach but she holds on to it.

“Oh, stop it already!” she scolds and reaches to grab a bit more of the salve with one hand while holding onto his wing with the other. Her grip is tight but she’s surprisingly careful with the sensitive appendage. The warmth radiating from her palm is enough to make Cassian draw in a shuddering breath before speaking.

“I’ve already put that on this morning,” he lies, gritting his teeth while she resumes her previous actions. Cassian sees Azriel and Elain looking at them while walking to another corner of the garden. Azriel is smirking and he quickly wiggles his eyebrows once which makes Cassian want to shoot him a vulgar gesture but even innocent Elain is trying to supress a smile.

“You clearly didn’t do a very good job if they’re getting red after just a few minutes into the sun,” Nesta huffs. “And you’re always complaining about how you can’t reach the middle so there you go, I’m doing my nice deed of the day."

His whole world narrows to the feel of her hands - steady and unexpectedly gentle – rubbing tight circles on the outer upper part of his wings. He clenches his hands around the armrests of the chair and closes his eyes trying to focus on his breathing and not the feel of her hands on him.

He debates explaining to Nesta exactly how sensitive Illyrian wings are but he knows that the realisation of what she is doing would horrify and embarrass Nesta so much that she would never speak to him again. So he braces his elbows on his thighs, lets his head hang forward and tries to find another way to get her to stop.

“I didn’t think you knew what nice deeds were,” he says and his voice is uncharacteristically tight and hoarse. Nesta, however, doesn’t reply, but she keeps rubbing the salve into the delicate membrane. Her hands are soft – not marred with scars and callouses like his – and she is even gentler than some of the healers he’s encountered before. She rubs the salve in with precise circular motions, leaving his wings slightly shiny where she’s applied it and her movements are almost hypnotic. Cassian feels his breath catch every time she goes over a particularly sensitive scar even though her hands are always mindful of each cicatrix, however small.

Half of him wants to melt into her touch, to sigh and groan at the divine feeling but the other half of him – the still lucid half of him – tries to focus on anything else _but_ Nesta. _The blood and gore of war. Dead puppies_. _Keir and the King of Hybern making out._ Not even that works against Nesta’s dizzying touch and his fighting leathers strain painfully tight against his body. He’s imagined this happening before but it had always involved a more intimate setting and a lot less clothes and – _Cauldron boil him_ , that’s not what he should be thinking about at the moment. He tries and fails to supress a groan thinking of how he’s going to get himself out of this hole.

“Did I – did I hurt you?” Nesta asks, sounding atypically concerned. Her hands stop their ministrations and Cassian doesn’t know whether to thank the Mother for the bit of reprieve or curse Nesta for unwittingly drawing out the harrowing experience.

“No,” he chokes on the syllable and clears his throat before continuing. “I’m just peachy.”  He remains hunched and strategically raises his wings a couple of inches to act as a makeshift screen around him so Nesta won’t notice the obvious bulge in his lap.

Nesta once again, says nothing more – he didn’t expect her to – and sets about spreading the ointment to the rest of his wing. Exactly when he thinks it can’t get any better – or any worse, rather – she reaches the edge of his wing. The membrane there is just as thick as a piece of parchment and distinctly more sensitive than the rest of the wing and Cassian struggles to swallow every sound – moan, groan, sigh or curse – that threatens to fall from his lips save from the huffs of breath that even 5 centuries of discipline can’t keep contained.

Nesta moves on to his other wing, either oblivious to his reactions or mistaking them for pain and annoyance. Her warm hand touches the membrane of his left wing and he can’t help the tremor that goes through his body. He tries to think of battle strategies, of anything but the current situation but he can still feel his face growing hot and his dick throbbing painfully in his pants.

Nesta is silent and he prays to the Mother, the Cauldron and any kind of deity who might be listening that she stops soon or Cauldron help him, he’s going to explode and do something he’s going to regret. His breath is coming out in quick, short pants which he prays she doesn’t notice when he feels Nesta run her finger on the edge of the pennon and both his wing and his cock twitch. He can’t take it anymore. He knows she’s nearly finished but so is he and he’s about to shout at Nesta to stop – consequences be damned – when he hears Elain speak and his head shoots up.

“Nesta why don’t you come inside and help me make lunch? Feyre and Rhys are going to be here soon.” The middle Archeron sister has discarded her muddied gloves and is holding her hat in one hand, the other one extended in an invitation towards Nesta. Cassian draws his hands closer in his lap, not keen on having sweet Elain notice the effect her sister has on him although the small smile playing on her lips tells him she probably already knows.

“I’m almost done,“ Nesta protests tightly and Cassian briefly wonders if she is abashed to have been caught being nice – or what she thought was nice – to him.

“It’s fine. He can take care of the rest himself,” Azriel offers and Cass can only grunt in approval, not turning to face Nesta. She eventually lets herself be ushered inside and Cassian lets his head hang forward and takes in a couple of steadying breaths.

“I could have done with an earlier save,” Cassian grumbles once the Archeron sisters are out of earshot and Azriel only chuckles.

“Nothing a cold shower can’t fix, brother,” Azriel says and the amusement is audible in his voice. Cassian stands up and quickly shoots the Illyrian a vulgar gesture before scampering for the upstairs bathroom like a dog with his tail between his legs, furiously avoiding the kitchen where Nesta and Elain are currently preparing the food. 


End file.
